"Do you wear them clo'es when you visit your fine friends?" asked the old lady, shrewdly.
"No," said Ben. "Them are my every-day clo'es. I've got some velvet clo'es to home, embroidered with gold."
"I believe you are telling fibs," said the old lady. "What I want to know is, if you know my darter, Mrs. John Jones; her first name is Seraphiny. She lives on Bleecker Street, and her husband, who is a nice man, though his head is bald on top, keeps a grocery store."
"Of course I do," said Ben. "It was only yesterday that she told me her mother was comin' to see her. I might have knowed you was she."
"How would you have knowed?"
"Cause she told me just how you looked."
"Did she? How did she say I looked?"
"She said you was most ninety, and—"
"It isn't true," said the old lady, indignantly. "I'm only seventy-three, and everybody says I'm wonderful young-lookin' for my years. I don't believe Seraphiny told you so."
"She might have said you looked as if you was most ninety."